


safe (as) houses

by Chrome



Series: the unchained oblivion-verse [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27282409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome
Summary: In a world where the Mighty Nein have failed to keep Tharizdun chained, both hope and safety are hard to come by.Caduceus and Fjord find some anyway.
Relationships: Caduceus Clay & Fjord, Caduceus Clay/Fjord
Series: the unchained oblivion-verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1991989
Comments: 16
Kudos: 55
Collections: Caduceus Clay Whump Collection





	safe (as) houses

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to: alpha reader (aka recipient of un-asked for fics directly in her DMs) [Star](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardreamertwo), and beta readers [Theatricuddles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theatricuddles), [Rikki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeternaliternovae), and [silverkleptofox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverkleptofox).

There is no passcode to the safe house and no key. Fjord only has to press his hand against the door and it unlocks for him. He walks inside just as easily. He doesn’t have a good sense for magic, but even he can feel the wave of security when he passes over the threshold.  _ You belong here _ , the magic says, layered thickly through these walls. There is a glimmer of amber in the corner of his eye as he crosses, so he knows this house’s wards were laid by Caleb. Allura’s are royal blue; Essek’s are so dark purple they almost border on black.

Even so, his heart still skips a beat when he shuts the door and in the darkness, his eyes catch on a figure, sprawled in front of the hearth. A person, although his brain momentarily processes the long, angled silhouette as a fallen tree.

“Hey,” Fjord says sharply, even though he knows only friends can be here. But why are they lying in the dark?

The figure stirs, and sits up. Fjord relaxes when it takes a familiar shape. Caduceus, hair falling long over one shoulder, ears swiveling forward, still in his armor. “Who is it?” he blinks as though trying to clear his vision. Fjord remembers belatedly—firbolgs can’t see in the dark.

“It’s me,” Fjord says, after a moment where it catches in his throat. He’s surprised to feel himself choking up. It hasn’t been so long since he’s seen Caduceus, but in times like these—and it wasn’t that he’d thought something had happened, Fjord has always figured he’d know somehow, feel it through the Wildmother—but still, it is a strange aching relief to see him.

Caduceus’s confusion morphs into a wide smile. “Fjord! Come here so I can—hang on,” he lights the fire with a murmured cantrip and picks up the poker to prod it to life.

“Why are you lying in the dark?” Fjord asks. “In your armor?”

“I was tired,” Caduceus admits. “It seems—anyway, we can do better.”

Fjord doesn’t belabor the point. He thinks, were Caduceus not here, he might have done the same—strip off only the clothes he absolutely can’t sleep in, collapse on the sofa, wait until morning.

With its magical wards, the house isn’t freezing without the fire lit, but Fjord instantly feels better with the warm glow. Fjord goes around and lights the candles, too, in deference to Caduceus’s lack of night vision. Caduceus finishes banking up the fire and then stands.

“Food or bath first?” Caduceus asks.

Fjord almost points out the hypocrisy. It’s obvious that Caduceus would have slept on the cold hearth in his dirty armor if Fjord hadn’t arrived. But he also knows he would have done the same, except that he can’t let Caduceus stay like this and Caduceus can’t let Fjord. There are measures they are willing to take for others they can’t muster for themselves.

“Bath,” Fjord decides, and so they go to the bathroom. Nothing in the safehouses is lavish, but they are well-designed. The bathtub is wooden but very large. Fjord spells the water into it and Caduceus heats it. Then he reaches, without asking, for the straps of Fjord’s armor. Fjord reciprocates and they fall into the familiar routine of undoing leather ties, shedding breastplates and bracers, ignoring the reek of dirt and sweat and dried blood and letting it clatter to the floor. 

Still without asking, Fjord doesn’t stop at the armor. He reaches for the tie at Caduceus’s waistband and Caduceus unbuttons Fjord’s shirt, the movements drawing them up against each other. At a certain point, Fjord’s hands on Caduceus’s waist and Caduceus’s deft fingers on Fjord’s chest aren’t actually speeding up the process, but it’s only when the closeness becomes an active hindrance that either of them are willing to step back and strip off the last undershirts and socks by themselves.

Laundry and tending their armor is a chore for tomorrow. Fjord sinks into the hot water as soon as he’s dropped his last piece of clothing and Caduceus follows, settling into the bath opposite him with his knees drawn to his chest. Fjord lets out an involuntary sigh; yes, he could have slept in his clothes, but this is better. Caduceus being here is better for Fjord, and Fjord would like to think that being here himself is better for Caduceus.

“Thank you,” Caduceus says, after a while. His head is tipped back. Fjord reaches across and pulls a dead bug from his hair.

“Glad you were here,” Fjord says, simply.

They just sit in the water until it goes lukewarm, and then drain it with all the dirt and refill it and wash for real. Caduceus comes to life a bit and insists on washing Fjord’s hair, which is something no one else has ever done, to Fjord’s memory. He doesn’t know what it would feel like with someone else, but Caduceus’s long thin fingers working through the strands are familiar and comforting. As soon as Caduceus sits back Fjord reaches for him and does the same. He knows his motions are less sure—he’s never washed anyone’s hair before Caduceus either. But he knows what feels nice in his own hair, as much as he knows that the textures are as different as it’s possible to be, Fjord’s thick and straight and Caduceus’s forming fine, fragile curls.

The water has gone cool again by the time Fjord finishes, lingering longer than he has to, brushing his thumb across the fine fur on the back of Caduceus’s ears. Caduceus leans into his touch, and then into Fjord, and as though he is reading Fjord’s mind, he reheats the water a third time and they just sit there curled against each other, a tangle of limbs and damp hair and bare skin, breaths unconsciously lining up.

Finally Fjord’s stomach growls, audible in the quiet. Caduceus laughs. “Time for food, then.”

All Fjord’s traveling clothes are dirty and he guesses Caduceus’s are too, but there are clothes in the dressers and they find garments that roughly fit, generic tunics and pants in pale brown cotton.

The kitchen is stocked with mostly nonperishable goods, and Fjord stares glumly at the cans and tins and packages. The food and the clothes are a sharp reminder that this is a house and not a home; as much as it welcomes Fjord, he does not live here. He cannot live here. There is momentary safety, and nothing else.

All safety is momentary, now.

Fjord finds that he’s gone quiet, standing in the pantry. Caduceus catches something of his mood, but isn’t deterred. “This is good. We’ll do alright.” He unearths some root vegetables and lines up potatoes and carrots and a sack of dry brown beans on the counter.

Neither of them says much beyond the logistical conversation as Fjord helps scrub potatoes, find the salt, set the table. Caduceus never asks for help cooking or gives directions, but he’ll answer questions. “How many potatoes?” Fjord asks, and then “How small should I cut them?” He steals the knife and cutting board for the carrots when he finishes the potatoes, but leaves the proportions and the flavors and the actual mechanics of making the soup to Caduceus. There is still something magical or alchemical about it to Fjord--a bunch of old ingredients and an hour and they somehow end up with a thick bean and potato soup that is flavorful and rich. It’s the best food Fjord has tasted in weeks or months and he eats three bowls.

Tomorrow they will share news, worry about their friends, talk about the world outside the spelled walls. Tomorrow, there will be questions Fjord does not want to know the answer to but must ask: questions about cities that might have burned, people who might be buried. Questions about the marks he saw on Caduceus’s armor and the scars he felt on his skin. Tomorrow, or a few days after, but a finite number of days, this peace will end.

But tonight they are safe. Tonight Fjord lets himself pretend everything is fine, and he reaches underneath the table and finds Caduceus’s hand and holds it.

Caduceus grips back even tighter, and they leave the dishes for the next morning and Fjord falls asleep with Caduceus’s damp hair against his cheek in a bed too small for two grown men, let alone a firbolg and a half-orc, and when Caduceus shoves his icy fingers up Fjord’s shirt he shivers, and rather than pulling away he covers Caduceus’s hand with his own, guiding Caduceus’s palm over his own heart.

For the first time in months, he sleeps straight through to the next morning.

**Author's Note:**

> If you can, please leave a comment. They mean a lot.
> 
> If you liked this, check out my other Critical Role fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome/works?fandom_id=5406982).
> 
> I'm [catalists](http://catalists.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr or [@chromecatalists](https://twitter.com/chromecatalists/) on Twitter.


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